Three Blind Mice

6

“This was a little past midnight,” Trinh Mang Due said. “I could not sleep because I was so worried about my son in Orlando, why he had not sent for me as he’d promised.”

He was speaking in the tongue of his Vietnamese village, a local dialect that had given Mai Chim difficulty at first, but which she had finally got the hang of. This was eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning and Trinh was packing all of his worldly possessions for the final move to Orlando, where his son and daughter-in-law were opening a takee-outee Vietnamese restaurant. He would not be moving till later this week, but he was taking no chances on being left behind; he would be packed and ready whenever the car was. The same nephew who had driven him up there and back would be driving him up there again.

Trinh looked like any one of the old men you saw on television while the Vietnam War was raging, squatting outside a thatched hut, pained eyes squinting into the camera, except that he wasn’t wearing the typical black cotton shorts and shirt and the conical straw hat. He was, instead, wearing a striped short-sleeved sports shirt, khaki trousers, and sandals. But he had the same narrow weather-lined face with the high cheekbones and brownish skin, the same dark eyes with the Mongolian single fold of eyelid, the same straggly white beard. Bustling about from cardboard carton to cardboard carton, putting into each his clothing and the few precious possessions he had carried halfway across the world, he talked about what had happened on the night of the murders.

Last Monday night.

The thirteenth of August.

He had not been able to sleep because his son and daughter-in-law had left for Orlando the week before, to find suitable lodgings for the entire family, and they had promised to send for him immediately, but he had not yet heard from them, and he was worried that they had abandoned him.

Trinh was sixty-eight years old.

In Vietnamese tradition, this was a time of life to be spent with one’s own family; a time of peace, introspection, and preparation; a time to be passed in visiting or receiving friends; a time to choose an expert geomancer who would advise upon the exact location of one’s tomb and the purchase of one’s coffin.

But this was America.

And Trinh had heard that in this country, the elderly were often left to die alone, or else were transported to homes where people other than family would reluctantly tend to their needs. So who could say that his son had not wearied of supporting an old man who could contribute nothing but legendary tales to the family’s wealth? Who could say that the move to Orlando was not merely a ruse to rid themselves of him? So, yes, he’d been extremely worried on that night a week ago…

Mai Chim said something to him in Vietnamese, apparently correcting him, because he nodded at once, and said, “Yes, eight days ago, that is so. I was worried, as I told you…”

… because it had been a while now since his son left for Orlando, and there are people here in the community who have telephones (although there is none in this house), and they are willing to take messages, so why has he not called to say they are having difficulty finding a suitable home, or else there is some problem with acquiring the restaurant, or whatever the circumstances may be? Why leave an old man here to worry and wonder?

He thinks he hears a scream.

He thinks it is perhaps the scream that awakens him.

But perhaps not. He has been tossing and turning ever since ten o’clock, when he went to bed. Perhaps it is only his own restlessness that at last nudges him awake to the sounds of the night. A faraway train whistle. A dog barking. A scream?

In the darkness, he looks at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, which he purchased at the U.S. Army PX in Honolulu before beginning his long journey to the mainland, a journey that has taken him to four states and seven cities, a journey that may yet end in prosperity in Orlando, Florida, the second home of Mickey Mouse.

His watch reads ten minutes past midnight.

The night is sticky and hot.

His sheets are soggy with the moisture of the night and the dampness of his own anxiety. He throws back the top one and then swings his thin legs over the side of the narrow bed, goes to the door of the house, peers out through the screen door, and sees…

A man.

Running.

“Through the screen?” Matthew asked. “Did he see this man through the screen?”

Mai Chim asked the question in Vietnamese. Trinh answered.

“Yes,” Mai Chim said. “Through the screen.”

Then it’s possible his view was distorted, Matthew thought.

“I could see him sharply in the moonlight,” Mai Chim said, translating as Trinh spoke again. “He was wearing…”

… a yellow cap and a yellow jacket.

A tall, broad man.

Running toward the curb.

There was an automobile parked at the curb. The man ran around to the driver’s side of the car, opened the door…

“Did he see the man’s face?” Matthew asked.

Mai Chim translated this, and then listened to Trinh again.

“Yes,” she said. “A white man.”

“Was it Stephen Leeds?”

She translated this into Vietnamese, listened to Trinh’s answer, and fed it back to Matthew in English.

“Yes, it was Stephen Leeds.”

“How does he know that?”

Again she translated, and again she listened.

“He identified Leeds in a lineup.”

And now the dialogue seemed to flow back and forth between her and Matthew, the necessary translations forming only a singsong counterpoint to the main theme — which happened to be this matter of positive identification.

“How many men in the lineup?”

“Seven altogether.”

“All of them white?”

“Three white, three black, one Asian.”

Loaded, Matthew thought. Only two other whites besides Leeds.

“They didn’t have him wearing that yellow jacket and hat, did they?”

“No. All of the men were wearing jailhouse clothing.”

Then the lineup had to have taken place between Leeds’s arrest on Tuesday, August fourteenth, and Trinh’s departure for Orlando on Thursday, the sixteenth. Matthew himself had read about the witnesses in Friday morning’s Herald-Tribune.

“When did this lineup take place?” he asked.

“The day before I left for Orlando. A Wednesday.”

“The fifteenth.”

“Yes, I think that was the date.”

“Prior to that time, had you seen any pictures of Leeds in the newspaper? Or on television?”

“No.”

“Do you watch television?”

“Yes. But I did not see any pictures of the white man who killed my countrymen.”

“How do you know Leeds killed them?”

“It is said he killed them.”

“Said by whom?”

“Said in the community.”

“Said in the community that a white man named Stephen Leeds killed your countrymen?”

“Yes.”

“But is it said in the community that the white man you identified is the one who killed your countrymen?”

“Yes, this is also said.”

“Was this said before you made identification?”

“I do not understand the meaning of your question.”

“I’m asking if prior to the lineup you discussed Stephen Leeds with anyone who may have seen pictures of him in the newspaper or on television?”

“I discussed the murders, yes.”

“With anyone who’d seen a picture of Leeds?”

“Possibly.”

“And was he described to you? Did anyone tell you what he looked like?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you know a man named Tran Sum Linh?”

“I do.”

“Prior to the lineup, had you discussed the murders with Tran Sum Linh?”

“I may have.”

“Did he tell you he’d seen a man wearing a yellow hat and jacket entering the house where the three murder victims lived?”

“No, he did not.”

“Before the lineup, then, no one had described Stephen Leeds to you, from pictures they’d seen in the paper or on television…”

“No one.”

“And Tran Sum Linh did not mention that he’d seen a man in a yellow hat and jacket earlier that night?”

“He did not.”

“So the first time you saw this man was at ten minutes past twelve…”

“Yes.”

“On the night of August thir — well, actually the morning of August fourteenth, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Running to the curb, where an automobile was parked.”

“Yes.”

“Running from where?”

“From the house where my three countrymen lived. My countrymen who were murdered.”

“You actually saw this man coming out of their house?”

“No. But he was coming from the direction of their house.”

“I see. And running to this automobile.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of automobile?”

“I am not familiar with American cars.”

“Are you familiar with Italian cars?”

“No. Not those, either.”

“What color was this car?”

“Dark blue. Or green. It was difficult to tell in the dark.”

“But there was a moon.”

“Yes, but the car was parked under a tree.”

“So it was either a dark blue car or a green car.”

“Yes.”

“Not a red car.”

“It was not a red car.”

“Was it a sports car?”

“I do not know what a sports car is.”

Mai Chim translated this to Matthew and then went into a lengthy dissertation in Vietnamese, presumably explaining what a sports car was. Trinh listened intently, nodding in understanding, and finally said, “No, this was not a sports car. It was just an ordinary car.”

“Two-door or four?”

“I did not notice.”

“But you did notice Stephen Leeds’s face.”

“Yes. I am better with faces than with cars.”

“What else did you notice?” Matthew asked.

Trinh answered the question in Vietnamese.

Mai Chim nodded. Her face was noncommittal.

“What?” Matthew said.

“He noticed the license-plate number,” she said.

They were lunching at Kickers. Sitting on the deck outdoors, under one of the big green umbrellas. Patricia Demming and her investigator, Frank Bannion. Bannion was thinking they made a nice couple. He was wondering if she had a boyfriend or anything. He was feeling very attractive after last night. Last night, he had taken Sherry Reynolds to bed. He always felt attractive after he’d scored. Made him feel he was devastating. Especially if the woman was on the youngish side.

Sherry had told him in strictest confidence that she had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday two weeks ago. This was while she was blowing him. In order to prove that older women knew how to do certain things better than teenage girls. To Bannion, thirty was young. He told her so. He also told her that he was forty-two years old and still had his own hair and teeth. She seemed to find this quite impressive.

Today was Sherry’s day off.

She had told him last night that she had all day off tomorrow and they could do whatever they wanted all night long or even all day tomorrow since she didn’t have to be back at work till ten-thirty Wednesday morning. Bannion told her he had to be back at work at nine tomorrow, but they’d give it their best shot anyway. It was now twelve-thirty tomorrow, actually today already, actually Tuesday already, and here he was at a table overlooking the water, sitting with a very good-looking blonde who happened to be his boss, but about whom he was nonetheless entertaining libidinous thoughts. The weather down here did that to you. Down here in this sticky heat, it was very easy to get horny and to feel devastating.

“This is where the boat pulled in,” he said.

“What time?” she asked.

“About a quarter to eleven.”

“Which would’ve been about right, wouldn’t it?” Patricia said.

“Coming out of Willowbee at ten-thirty, sure, Leeds could’ve made it here easy in fifteen minutes.”

“Did she actually see it coming down the channel?”

“Yep. And she knows the water. She didn’t see it coming off marker 72, that’s too far north. But she picked it up on its approach to the dock here.”

“Saw it from where?”

“The bar there. Clear shot of the channel.”

Patricia looked.

“Okay,” she said. “Did she describe the boat?”

“Down to the cleats.”

“Saw the name on the transom?”

“No. He pulled in bow first.”

“Which slip?”

“Second from the end. On your right.”

Patricia looked again.

“Still a clear shot from the bar,” Bannion said. “And even though she didn’t see the name…”

“Felicity,” Patricia said, and shook her head.

“Sucks, don’t it?” Bannion said, taking a chance. Nothing crossed her face. He considered that a good sign. “But even if she couldn’t see it ‘cause the transom was away from her, she knows boats, all kinds of boats, and she can describe this one in court. Better yet, she can describe him.”

“Leeds?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, we’ll have to run a lineup for her. But certainly a guy in a yellow jacket and hat.”

“Driving the boat?”

“Driving it, tying it up, going up the steps on the side of the dock there, and walking straight into the parking lot.”

“This was at what time?”

“Let’s say ten to eleven.”

“That checks out. When did she lose him?”

“When he got in the car and drove off.”

“What kind of car?” Patricia asked, leaning forward intently.

“A green Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.”

“And the license plate?”

“She couldn’t see it from the bar.”

“Shit,” Patricia said.

Which Bannion found not only exciting but also terribly promising.

“Shall we order?” he asked, and smiled his most devastating smile.

“There’s yet another way to look at this,” Mai Chim said.

She and Matthew were sitting in a restaurant some seven miles from Kickers, where Bannion had just identified the make of the automobile Trinh Mang Due had been able to describe only as an ordinary dark blue or green car. But Trinh had seen the license plate. A Florida plate, he’d said. Very definitely a Florida plate. And Matthew had written down the number on that plate. 2AB 39C. Find the car, he was thinking, and we’ve got the man in the yellow jacket and hat.

“Another way of looking at what?” he asked.

He’d been surprised and pleased when she’d accepted his lunch invitation, and he was satisfied now to see her enjoying the meal so much. He’d frankly wondered whether Italian cooking would appeal to a woman who’d spent the first fifteen years of her life in Saigon. But she ate as if famished, first demolishing the linguine al pesto, and now working actively — and with seemingly dedicated intensity — on the veal piccata.

“The murder,” she said. “The rape. Whether or not they’re linked.”

“Do you think they’re linked?”

“Not necessarily. I think those men raped her, yes, but that doesn’t mean…”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. Mind you, the Vietnamese immigrants in this city would prefer having it the other way round. They were very pleased when the verdict came in. Not guilty was what they’d been praying for. There is not a single Buddhist temple in all of Calusa, did you know that? It makes it difficult for many Asians coming here.”

“Are you Buddhist?” Matthew asked.

“Catholic,” she said, shaking her head. “But many of my friends were Buddhist when I was growing up. What are you?”

“Nothing right now.”

“What were you?”

“Whitebread Episcopalian.”

“Is that good?”

“I guess if you’re going to be anything in America, it’s best to be a Wasp, yes.”

“What’s that?”

“Wasp? White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.”

“Is Episco — could you say it again for me, please?”

“Episcopalian.”

“Episcopalian, yes,” she said, and then tried it again, rolling the word on her Asian tongue. “Episcopalian. Is that a form of Protestant?”

“Yes,” Matthew said.

“And is Whitebread a form of Episcopalian?”

“No, no,” he said, smiling, “Whitebread is… well… Wasp,” he said, and shrugged. “They’re synonymous.”

“Ah,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Then Whitebread Episcopalian is redundant,” she said.

“Well, yes.”

“I like that word. It’s one of my favorite English words. Redundant. How old are you?” she asked abruptly.

“Thirty-eight,” he said.

“Are you married?”

“No. Divorced.”

“Do you have any children?”

“One. A daughter. She’s up in Cape Cod this summer. With her mother.”

“What’s her name?”

“Joanna.”

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Then you were married very young.”

“Yes.”

“And is she quite beautiful?”

“Yes. But all fathers think their daughters are quite beautiful.”

“I’m not sure my father felt that way about me.”

“He got you on that helicopter.”

“Yes, he did,” she said.

“And you are,” Matthew said. “Quite beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, and fell silent.

He wondered if she knew this. How very beautiful she was. Or had she lost all sense of self during those war-torn years in Vietnam? Or in all those years of constant move and change since her father had lifted her into the arms of that black Marine sergeant? Was there in Mary Lee the bookkeeper any semblance of the little Vietnamese girl Le Mai Chim once had been? He wondered.

“Who do you think killed them?” she asked, shifting ground quite suddenly, as if wanting to distance herself from whatever thoughts their immediate conversation had provoked. Her eyes shifted, too. Away from his. Avoiding contact. He felt awkward all at once. Had she mistaken his sincere compliment for a clumsy pass? He hoped not.

“It’s not my job to find a killer,” he said. “I only have to show that my man didn’t do it.”

“And do you believe he didn’t do it?”

Matthew hesitated for only an instant.

“Yes, I do,” he said, but at the same moment Mai Chim said, “You don’t, do you?” so that their words overlapped.

“Let’s say I’m still looking for evidence,” he said. “To support my belief.”

“Will the license plate help?”

“Maybe.”

“Provided Trinh was seeing correctly.”

“I have no reason to believe he wasn’t. Unless… are your numbers the same as ours?”

“Oh, yes, our numbers are Arabic. And for the most part, our alphabet is the same, too. Give or take some missing letters and a million diacritical marks.”

“What’s a diacritical mark?” Matthew asked.

She looked at him.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said.

“You could have bluffed, you know,” she said, and smiled.

“Sure. But then I’d never know. What is it?”

“It’s a tiny little mark that’s added to a letter to give it a different phonetic value.”

“Ah-ha.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. Like the cedilla in French or the umlaut in German.”

“I don’t know what those are.”

“You could have bluffed, you know,” he said.

“Yes, but what are they?”

“Diacritical marks,” Matthew said.

“Okay.”

“I think,” he said, and smiled.

He liked the way she said okay. She made it sound foreign somehow. Okay. This most American of words.

“The Vietnamese language is very difficult for a foreigner to learn,” she said. “This was one trouble when the American soldiers were there. It is not a language you can easily pick up. And where there is no common language, there is suspicion. And mistakes. Many mistakes. On both sides.”

She shook her head.

“This is why the Vietnamese here were so happy with the verdict. If these men were not guilty, then there would be less suspicion of the foreigners, less abuse.”

“Is there? Abuse?”

“Oh yes. Sure.”

“Of what sort?”

“Everyone in America forgets that everyone here once came from someplace else. Except the Indians. Maybe they were here to begin with. The rest came from all over the world. But they forget this. So if ever an argument starts between an American and someone who is new here, the first thing the American says is, ‘Go back where you came from.’ Isn’t this so?”

“Yes,” Matthew said.

Go back where you came from.

He wished he had a nickel for every time he’d heard those words tumbling from the lips of a so-called native American.

Go back where you came from.

“Which is what I meant earlier,” Mai Chim said.

“About what?”

“About another way of looking at this,” she said.

“And what’s that?”

“That the rape and the murder are totally unrelated.”

“That’s what our approach has been, actually.”

“Then you believe as I do,” she said. “That someone was telling the Vietnamese in Calusa to go back where they came from.”

He looked at her.

“This is the South, you know,” she said.

He kept looking at her.

“Where I understand crosses are sometimes burned on lawns.”

It took the jailer ten minutes to get Stephen Leeds to the telephone. When finally he picked up the receiver, he sounded cranky and irritable.

“I was napping,” he said.

Matthew looked at his watch. Three-twenty. He had left Mai Chim at two-thirty, and then had driven home to pick up his Sony tape recorder. It was sitting on his desk now.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said, “but there are a few more questions I’d like to ask.”

“Have you been reading the papers?” Leeds said. “They’ve already tried and convicted me.”

“That may work in our favor,” Matthew said.

“I don’t see how.”

“Change of venue,” he said.

“Meanwhile, everyone in this town thinks I’m a murderer.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. How can you pick a jury when everyone’s already made up his mind?”

“Yeah, well,” Leeds said dubiously.

“Mr. Leeds, I want to check some things you told me. If I remember correctly, your own car is a Cadillac, is that right?”

“That’s right. A Cadillac Seville.”

“What color is it?”

“It’s got a black top and silver sides.”

“Could the color be mistaken for a dark blue? Or a green?”

“I don’t see how.”

“At night, I mean.”

“Even so. The silver is… well, it’s silver, it’s metallic. Dark blue or green? No. Definitely not.”

“What’s the license-plate number, do you know?”

“I’m not sure. W something. WR… I don’t remember. I always have to look at this little tag I have on my key ring.”

“Would the number be 2AB 39C?”

“No. Definitely not. It starts with a W, I’m sure of that. And I think the second letter is R. WR something.”

“Not 2AB…”

“No.”

“…39C?”

“No. Why?”

“One of the witnesses says he saw you getting into a car with that license plate.”

“When? Where?”

“Outside Little Asia. At a little past midnight on the night of the murders.”

“Good,” Leeds said.

“I gather it wasn’t you.”

“Damn right, it wasn’t. Do you know what this means?”

“Yes, of course,” Matthew said.

“If we can track down that car, we’ve got whoever killed them! Jesus, this is the first good news we’ve had on this case! I can’t wait to tell Jessie. The minute you hang up, I’m going to call her.”

“I’ll let you know what we come up with. Meanwhile, I want you to repeat something after me.”

“Huh?” Leeds said.

“First listen to all of it, and then repeat it when I give you the signal, okay?”

“Sure,” Leeds said, but he sounded puzzled.

“Hello,” Matthew said, “this is Stephen Leeds. I’ll be…”

In Calusa, Florida, you paid for your license plate in the Tax Collector’s office, either by mail or in person. And, similarly, you either picked up the plate or else it was mailed to you. The Tax Collector’s office was on the second floor of the new courthouse building, adjacent to the Public Safety Building and the city jail. At four o’clock that Tuesday afternoon, Warren Chambers was telling Fiona Gill — whose official title was Supervisor of Motor Vehicle Taxation — that his boss was looking for an owner identification on a license-plate number in his possession.

“Who are you working for these days?” Fiona asked.

She was an extremely good-looking black woman, her eyes the color of anthracite, her skin the color of mocha, her lips painted with a ruby-red gloss that caused them to shine wetly and invitingly here in the dim drabness of this unusually grim government office. She was wearing a bright yellow dress that Warren guessed was linen, buttoned up the front to the third button down, gold loop earrings, a gold chain hanging around her neck, the letter F nestling in the clefted shadow of her breasts, partially revealed in the open V of the dress. Warren thought she was an altogether fine piece of work. He wondered if she thought he was too young for her. Many women her age — he guessed she was forty-two or thereabouts — found men his age immature.

“Summerville and Hope,” he said. “Do you know them?”

“No,” she said. “Should I?”

“Not unless you’ve been in trouble lately,” he said, and smiled.

Fiona took this as innuendo, which it was.

She had worked with Warren Chambers before and had found him lacking in only one quality: age. Fiona was forty-six years old, and she guessed that Warren was in his mid-to-late thirties. But other than his callow youthfulness, she could find no fault with him. Except perhaps his new haircut, which made him look even younger than she suspected he was. But now — innuendo. Well, well, well.

“Not the kind of trouble requiring a lawyer,” she said. “Or a real estate agent, if that’s what they are.”

“No, you were right the first time.”

“Last time I needed a lawyer was when I got my divorce,” Fiona said.

Warren considered this unsolicited and welcome information.

“How long ago was that?” he asked.

“Fourteen years,” she said.

“And now you’re happily married again,” he said.

Which Fiona considered a fishing expedition.

Which it was.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m happily playing the field. Though, to tell you the truth, Warren…”

This was the first time she’d ever used his given name.

“… all the available men in Calusa are either married or gay.”

“Not me,” Warren said.

Fiona arched an eyebrow.

“Good-looking fella like you must be involved, though,” she said, and decided to lay her cards on the table. “With a woman more your own age.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Fiona,” he said, using her given name for the first time. “I find most women my age a bit adolescent.”

“You do, huh?”

Eyes meeting.

“I prefer more mature women,” he said.

“Indeed,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said.

Both of them nodding. Slow nods in the afternoon stillness. Somewhere in the dim recesses of the room, a typewriter began clacking. And then fell abruptly silent again. Warren was wondering whether he’d get shot down if he asked her out to dinner. She was wondering whether she should suggest discussing his age preferences over a drink later this afternoon. Neither said a word. The opportunity hung there expectantly, hovering on the air like a Spielberg spaceship, all shining with promise. And then, unassailed, it drifted off into a galaxy of glittering dust motes, and the distant typewriter began clacking again, shattering the stillness, destroying the moment. It was Fiona who, embarrassed, broke eye contact.

“So what kind of license plate has your boss come up with?” she said.

Warren dug into his pocket and fished out his notebook. He leafed through it until he came to the page upon which he’d scribbled the number Matthew had given him on the phone.

“Here you go,” he said, and handed it across the counter to her. Fiona looked at it.

“No such animal,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t have plates beginning with a number. Not here in Florida.”

“This is what the man saw,” Warren said.

“Then the man saw wrong. Here in Florida, we use three letters, two numbers, and then a single letter. The computer chooses the letters and numbers at random, automatically eliminating any already designated sequence. You can have, oh, CDB 34L, or DGP 47N, or AFR 68M, or whatever. But what you can’t have is the sequence here on this paper.”

“You’re sure about that, huh?” Warren said.

“Am I sure that my unlisted phone number is 381-3645?” she asked, and arched her eyebrow again.